Murder at the Treasure Hunt

by David W Robinson

  “Can I have that in writing?” Kim pushed past Joe and into the hotel. She paused on the upper step. “Alan, Ben, hurry it up. I haven’t all day for the likes of these.” She continued her march into the hotel.

  Her final words were directed at the two men who had been following her. They looked alike, but about twenty years separated them. The elder, probably in his forties, his black hair fading to grey in places, his tall figure rounding at the midriff, the younger, not yet twenty years of age, a mirror image, but leaner, fitter, with the same black hair cropped short and fashionable.

  As Kim’s back disappeared into the lobby, the elder man smiled apologetically at the small group staring after her. “Sorry about that. It’s the way she is.”

  “She needs a good slapping then,” Brenda commented.

  “Forget it, Brenda,” Joe advised. “You can’t argue with ignorance.”

  “She wasn’t always like that. I’m Alan Foster. Her partner. This is my son, Ben.”

  Joe shook hands and nodded to the younger man, who carried on into the hotel.

  “Likes to stick with his mother, does he?”

  “Kim’s not his mother. My first wife is.” Alan drew in a deep breath and made for the lobby. “I’d better get on. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

  “Sure, but make sure you’re off the lead first.”

  Joe grabbed the handle of his small case and noticed Brenda still fuming at the hotel entrance. “What’s up with you?”

  “Her. She needs to learn a lesson in manners.”

  Joe gazed out over the bay and basked momentarily in the glorious sunshine. “She does, but you know what? I don’t care. I mean to enjoy myself this weekend, and I won’t let an ignorant sow like her spoil it.” He, too, turned, and went back into the hotel.

  Collecting her luggage, Brenda marvelled briefly at Maddy. “I don’t know what you’re putting in his tea, but he’s a changed man.”

  “Sorry? Say again, Brenda?”

  “Time was when it wouldn’t be me threatening to get back at Mrs ignorant. It would have been Joe ready to start all-out war.” Brenda smiled. “How have you done it, Maddy?”

  And Maddy smiled back. “Feminine wiles.”

  ***

  In the lobby, Joe pulled rank on his members and jumped the queue at reception, in time to hear Kim Ashton ranting.

  “I want the wi-fi in my room and those either side of it, turned off.”

  She was being attended by the duty manager, Ronald Ilkeston, a balding man in his late forties, impressively dressed in a dark suit and pristine shirt, its brilliant white offset by the rising colour in his cheeks and ears. “But, madam, it runs through the whole hotel.”

  “Then switch it off everywhere.”

  Her voice could be heard throughout the lobby, and mutinous mutterings came from those waiting to collect their keys.

  “I can’t do that,” Ilkeston insisted. “Our guests have booked on the understanding that the hotel offers free wi-fi in all rooms.”

  Kim pointed a warning finger at him. “You’re already on my clearing-out list, Ilkeston, you are not doing yourself any favours ignoring me. By next week, I will own this place, and your position is likely to be vacant.”

  Tiring of her tyranny, Joe took a deep breath to calm himself and spoke to the manager. “When she fires you, go to a tribunal and give my name as a witness.”

  She turned on him. “And who do you think you are?”

  As Brenda attended to Maddy, the old Joe would have bitten back, snapped her head off, given her a mouthful of deserved invective. He deliberately reminded himself that the old Joe belonged in the past, and with that thought, he calmly replied, “Someone you can’t intimidate.”

  She turned her venom back on Ilkeston. “If anything happens, I will hold you responsible. Now give me my keys and have my luggage brought to the room.”

  She marched stiffly off, followed by Alan and his son, and a porter towing all three suitcases behind him.

  The manager gave Joe a bleak smile. “I’m sorry about that, Mr Murray.”

  “Not your fault, is it?”

  “She worked here up until about three or four years ago, and she was a different woman then. According to what we hear, she’s been like this ever since she won the lottery.”

  Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “She won the lottery?”

  Ilkeston nodded. “It was in all the local papers. Born and raised in this area. She picked up about eight million, and the day after she collected her cheque she declared her intention to buy this place.”

  “With her attitude, she’ll struggle to get staff.”

  Ilkeston nodded. “She’ll need a new manager for a start, because if she doesn’t sack me, I’ll walk.”

  Chapter Three

  Joe and Maddy settled into room 202, and while she unpacked her sparse clothing into the double wardrobe, Joe stood at the window looking out over as much of Whitby as he could see.

  The Headland Hotel next door overlooked the town which was set in a steep and narrow valley spanning the River Esk. The nearer bank remained invisible, 100 and something feet below the level of West Cliff, but on the other side of the river, they could see the closely packed, narrow streets of shops and cottages, and beyond them, the steep climb up to St Mary’s, the tiny church fronting the ruins of the Abbey. From here, all he could see was the top of the hill. The spike of Cadmaeon’s Cross, a 20-foot high monument in the shape of a Celtic cross, stood proud before the church, and in the background the moody remains of the Abbey, granted supernatural status thanks to the imagination of Bram Stoker.

  It was not, however, the legend of Dracula which created a sense of unease in Joe. On his last visit, when he and his two friends stayed next door, there had been a brutal murder, one which, by virtue of its cold-bloodedness, disturbed him more than many of the others he had tackled.

  When Maddy queried his mood and listened to his explanation, she told him, “You associate the town, especially this part of it, with a terrible experience. You can’t help it, Joe, but you can get real. What are the chances of history repeating itself?”

  “I know, I know. Lower than a snake’s whatsit. But that killer’s attitude appalled me. I saw the dead woman. That didn’t even put me off my breakfast, but her attitude did. She claimed she had no other choice, but that’s not true. We all have choices, Maddy, and it’s up to us to make sure we make the right ones. She was wrong, but her only response was to threaten me… if she ever gets out of prison.”

  Maddy skirted the double bed, moved close to him and threw her arms around him. They kissed. “Lean on me, Joe. I promise you that by the time the weekend is through, you’ll be reminiscing on the pleasantries of Whitby, not the pogroms.”

  Joe was not listening. His attention was distracted by the sight of Kim Ashton on the pavement opposite, arguing with a man. He was tall, slender, long-haired, and leaned casually against the bonnet of a spanking new Ford Focus. Kim jammed the air in front of him with her finger, but he appeared none too impressed, and when she had finished, he pointed back at her, ranted briefly in her face, and then climbed into his car, slammed the door and drove off at high speed.

  As he disappeared and Kim came across the road back into the hotel, Joe registered Maddy’s words, and his already-wrinkled brow creased into a deep frown. “Programs? What programs?”

  “I said pogroms not programs.”

  “There’s a difference?”

  Maddy considered the question. “Well, I suppose if you look at modern television, no, there isn’t much to choose between them.”

  ***

  Across the corridor, Brenda hung a flouncy, white blouse in the wardrobe. “He’s a changed man. I said that to Maddy, and you must have noticed.”

  Stood by an occasional table, Sheila poured boiling water from the kettle into a small teapot. “I think he’s trying to make up for lost time, Brenda. The Lazy Luncheonette has been his life for the better part of forty years, but that busines
s in Majorca last year suddenly opened his eyes. Frankly, I’m surprised he bothered coming back from Tenerife.”

  “And what would he have done if he’d stayed there? Gone back to his ex-wife?” Brenda sniffed disdainfully. “Alison was never right for him. When they first married I said it wouldn’t last.”

  As she prepared two cups, Sheila chuckled. “Jealous, dear? Is his relationship with Maddy troubling you?”

  Brenda was quick to dismiss the idea. “As it happens, I think she’s good for him. All right, so Joe and I have had a bit of fun in the past, but it was never anything serious, and I don’t blame him for teaming up with someone like Maddy. She’s outgoing, fun, she knows how to live, and that’s good for him.” Her brow knitted. “By the same token, Maddy has always made it clear she’s not looking for anything permanent. I just don’t want to see Joe hurt.”

  Sheila stirred milk into the cups. “You won’t. I think this is a reaction to Denise’s death as much as the business in Palmanova. She and Joe really had something, and I suspect it hit him harder than he lets on.”

  As Brenda hung up a pair of dark trousers, designed to offset the blazing white of the blouse, Sheila delivered the cups of tea to the central cabinet between the single beds.

  “Anyway, never mind Joe. One of us is here for the treasure hunt, and it’s years since I’ve been on one of those.” Brenda reached across the bed, into her small suitcase, and took out a map. “Street plan of Whitby. Stewart can hardly find his way round Sanford, never mind Whitby, so we can’t go into this blind.”

  “You’re going all out to win first prize, aren’t you? And have you seen what it is?” Sheila chuckled. A free weekend in this hotel. Hardly a lottery jackpot, is it?”

  “While you’re busy working for the Secret Service? Whitby is hardly James Bond territory, is it?” Brenda opened the map and sat down to study it. “I’m doing a Joe. Working to the Yorkshire credo…owt for nowt.”

  ***

  Ilkeston padded along the ground floor towards room 101. His employment at the Westhead Hotel spanned 30 years, from porter to reception clerk to duty manager, and throughout all that time he’d never given much thought to the room number, but now, with the prospect of Kim Ashton taking over, it was apposite. His worst nightmares would materialise in room 101.

  Negotiations were still in progress and she had not yet taken over the hotel, but it was common knowledge that the two parties were simply crossing t’s and dotting i’s. There was trivia to sort out, signatures to append, contracts to be exchanged, and after the weekend was over, the Westhead would become the property of Kimberley Ashton.

  He remembered her when she first started work there. Her mother, a chambermaid, got her the job. Typical teenager, she was not particularly attentive to her duties, and needed regular reminders, but the hotel (under different management then, naturally) was persuaded by Kim’s mother to keep her on. She was never very good at her work, but she had one saving grace. She was Whitby born and raised, and there was nothing about the town she did not know. Guests found that useful, engaging and charming, and commented upon it in the visitors’ book. Kim Ashton remained at the Westhead for almost twenty years, and only parted company with the hotel after her mother died in a freak accident.

  Kim would not accept the court’s conclusion. She insisted that her mother was murdered, and after working her notice, she vowed to return one day and bring the murderer to book.

  It would be difficult, Ilkeston decided as he stood outside her door. Despite Kim’s determined insistence, there had never been any suggestion that it was deliberate. Windows were being replaced, the frame in question was not properly secured in its aperture, and for some reason – the coroner assumed that someone had slammed a door or similarly shaken the wall – the entire windowpane, complete with the double glazing sealed units, fell out on top of Deirdre Ashton and killed her.

  The hotel had been punished. The group which owned the place was fined a huge amount of money, and the hotel had never properly recovered. It never again reached the heights of its former glory. At the same time, the construction company was fined, and the size of that fine was enough to put them out of business. Kim, Deirdre’s only living relative, was compensated, but she nevertheless waged a one-woman campaign to unmask the individual who had murdered her mother.

  It was all a little airy-fairy as far as Ilkeston was concerned. No one had ever come up with a sufficient reason for anyone to want to murder Deirdre, it was three years in the past and even if Kim was right, the chances of exposing the killer were pretty remote.

  Ilkeston’s concerns were more personal and immediate. He and Tracy Huckle were the only two members of staff remaining from those days, and he had no doubt that Kim’s burning quest for revenge would see him out of work, and Tracy would not be far behind. Kim had already stolen her husband, and it would be the ultimate victory for her if she could find reason to fire Tracy.

  She called out from within the room. He brought his attention into focus and stepped in.

  The furnishings were a testament to the former glory of the Westhead. Mock Regency throughout, from the chaise longue to the fireside chairs, from the mock Adam fireplace, to the dark oak, imitation Hepplewhite cabinet on the rear wall. Even the bed, invisible behind the double doors to the other room, was a four-poster complete with drapes.

  Kim had booked the room long term, and reserved it as an office/living quarters for those days when she preferred the hotel to her bungalow in Cragshaven. She had also made it plain that when ownership of the Westhead fell to her, then room 101 would become her permanent residence.

  She sat with her back to the window (open to let in the fresh, summer air) head bowed over what looked like a personnel file. And if Ilkeston was right about that, then there could only be one possibility: it was his file.

  “Sit down, Ilkeston. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  He disliked being addressed by his surname alone. The longevity of his employment at the Westhead surely demanded the prefix ‘Mister’. When she was a humble chambermaid, she had always been known as Ms Ashton, never simply Ashton.

  Ilkeston wondered for a moment where her lover and his son were. Alan Foster followed her like a lapdog. The analogy was exact. When she snapped her fingers, he jumped to obey. His son, Ben, was less obsequious, but he came under the influence of his father, and by and large did as he was told.

  It was a situation which infuriated Tracy Huckle, the senior receptionist and the former Tracy Foster. The divorce had been so stressful that it put her in hospital, and while she was under the care of the medics, her husband applied for, and won custody of the then five-year-old Ben. In the three years since the divorce, the younger Foster had tried to get close to his mother, but his father and Kim Ashton moved heaven and earth to prevent it.

  And talking of Kim, she compelled him to endure the silence for another couple of minutes, ostensibly reading through the file, then she closed it, put it to one side, and arms folded on the desktop, looked up.

  There was no evidence of pleasure in her sharp features. No hint of a smile, no softening of the icy blue eyes. All he could read was contempt, and when she spoke, it was with barely suppressed anger.

  “I want your resignation.”

  Ilkeston shrugged. “My mother brought me to understand that I wants never get.”

  “I’m not your mother. What I want, I get, and I want your resignation.”

  He shook his head. “If you want me out, Ms Ashton, then you’ll have to fire me, and you’d better make sure you have a good excuse, because if you don’t, I’ll haul you in front of a tribunal.”

  Kim was not fazed. She leaned back in her seat and half turned her chair so she could gaze out across the town. “You and that bitch are the only two members of staff who were here on the day my mother was murdered.”

  “Your mother died as a result of a freak accident.”

  She rounded sharply on him. “She was murdered. I know it, so does
her killer, and so do you because you covered up. You and Huckle, you knew damn well who killed my mother, but the management at the time told you to shut your mouths, and you did.”

  Ilkeston sighed. “You’re paranoid. You always have been. Is that it? Can I go back to work now?”

  “Yes, but before you go, bear this in mind. I want your resignation on my desk by Monday morning. I should be able to prove who killed my mother, and that means I’ll be able to prove you covered up. And I have enough information on you, Ilkeston, to make sure that when I lever you out of here, you’ll never work again. Your notice by Monday morning.”

  Ilkeston buried his sudden anxiety, converting it to anger. He stood up. “And I wish you luck. But I think you’ll find the police and other hoteliers are too busy to listen to fairy tales.”

  ***

  Extreme discomfort was the primary emotion running to Tracy when she faced Kim in room 101. She felt like an accused miscreant in the dock of a criminal court, with Kim as judge and jury. And it didn’t help that her son and ex-husband were also present.

  “The proposition is simple enough,” Kim said. “You give me your resignation, or I make sure that when you do get kicked out of the door, you will never work on this part of the coast again… or anywhere else if I have anything to do with it.”

  Tracy had been angry with Kim for long enough, and notwithstanding the fact that the woman was now about to take control of the Westhead, Tracy was not for backing down. “Give me one good reason why I should resign? I do my job. I’m never late, I don’t shirk, and Ronnie Ilkeston will testify to the amount of unpaid overtime I put in.”

  “I’ll tell you why.” Kim sat forward in her seat, assuming a more threatening posture. “You know what really happened three years ago. You’ve always known. But you chose to save your own hide rather than tell the truth. Well, now it’s time for payback. You are out of here, and it’s up to you how you choose to go. One thing’s for sure, I will not have a drunken whore on my staff.”